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JOIN PENELOPE & OTTO SATURDAY NIGHT 10/10 9PM CST AND DISCUSS THIS WEEK IN NEWS AND ENTERTAINMENT!

Posted by Penelope on October 10, 2009 at 7:06pm
Listen to In Like Flynn on internet talk radio

Click on the icon and join Penelope and Otto to discuss all things social and sexual from the week's headlines and blogs including the Nobel committee's selection of Barack Obama as the Peace Prize recipient! Serena Williams in the "altogether"! ESPN's Body issue features as cover model Serena Williams! And why it is that Anglos don't believe black people have a sense of humor, Getting ready for Halloween - Yes it IS that kind of party, and the best revenge...what was the best revenge you ever took? So join us in the Chat room and Call in at 718/506-9683 for this and more on Saturday night's In Like Flynn!http://sports.espn.go.com/espn/news/story?id=4526351
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CreateSpace Report Card

Posted by Malcolm Dylan Petteway on October 10, 2009 at 12:40pm
Bottom line Up Front (BLUF): I released the first book, Homecoming, of my science fiction series Osguards: Guardians of the Universe on 8 Oct 09 through CreateSpace.com. This blog is to respond to Veronica Henry’s question on how I liked dealing with CreateSpace.com.I have published three of the four books prior with Iuniverse.com. I thank Iuniverse for extending the opportunity to me, but I felt like I was doing all the work and they were reaping all the benefits. Even though I have severed my relationship with them, I still see my books trading, although slow, on-line. Therefore, I decided to branch out on my own and start my own small print publishing for my books.A few months ago, I asked the group about CreateSpace.com as a business to produce my books. Responses were mixed, but I decided to go with them anyway. CreateSpace allowed me to publish under my own brand, so I decided to publish my Osguard series under Rage Books.The process was long, due to my pace. I didn't want to rush into things. I really had only one problem. That was the production of the book cover. I initially was going to use their cover program (which was quick and easy), but since I'm paying for both my daughters to go to college to learn how to do things like that (one is a digital animator and the other is in graphic communication) I charged them with doing the cover. That took more time. Unfortunately, the instructions on how to use their template for self-produced covers were not clear when it came to the bleed zone. It took me five attempts and even after that three proofs to get it right.Other than that, excellent knowledge of Microsoft word and how to set up a page was most helpful. The interior was accepted on the first try.However, I must tell you, there is something exciting about putting your book together from all perspectives, rather than just handing someone the manuscript. I thoroughly enjoyed it.So I would have to say I give CreateSpace.com a four out of five so far. Now, let's see how their support will be during marketing. Today, I placed the book live on my websites: www.osguards.com and www.ragebooks.net. The book is also available on the CreateSpace.com website. It will take a few weeks before it gets to www.Amazon.com. The beauty of that is I will also try to market the books on the kindle application.Oh yeah, if you do it all yourself (writing, production, art etc) it is free. However, I paid about $40 for the pro plan which allowed me to keep more of the sale price as royalty. So if you are a perfectionist...this is the way to go. It can’t do you any harm to check out createspace.com.Malcolm “RAGE” Pettewaywww.ragebooks.net
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Flight Check (cross post)

Posted by Geoff Thorne on October 9, 2009 at 2:58am
Ladies and gentlemen, this is your co-captain speaking, flying the passenger plane metaphor until the wings drop off.As we approach cruising altitude, we thought it would be a good idea to start things off with some discussion of how to start things off. A flight check, if you will. Now, I know, it's normal to do the flight check BEFORE one takes off and, technically, we already did one, but, on GENRE 19 AIR, we like to live both dangerously and cautiously. Hence, flight check #2.So, what do you need to get started? I bet you're thinking "An idea!" right?No. Ideas are good but the brutal truth is everybody has them and, in themselves, they don't stack up to much. You can't own an idea, for instance. You can't copyright or trademark an idea. Ideas are for entertaining people at parties and wasting time at your local comic book shop. Can Superman actually beat Thor? (Kurt Busiek says "yes.")Todd and I had a lot of ideas for what our first official joint project might be. We spent a long time discussing them- pros and cons, marketing stuff, all that- but nothing actually happened until he called me up one day and said, "Okay. Today's the day. Write the script."So, forget that nonsense about million-dollar ideas. There's no such thing. An idea isn't even a blueprint. A script is a blueprint and that is what you need to get started.I'm going to assume, if you're still here, that you've written the script for at least the first issue of your magnum opus. If you haven't, go do it now. We have some time before we level off. Okay? Back? Script written? Good. Moving on.If you're comfy with your artist and letterer and already have a working relationship with them, your script can be "off model," written in a sort of shorthand that the three of you understand. If, however, you do not know the artist and letterer well, it's best to use one of the three or four established scripting formats for comics. (No, I won't post them here.) The various styles break down into two large categories.1) FULL SCRIPT: This is the comic book version of a movie screenplay. There is a lot of detail in the scene descriptions and there is dialog. This is my preferred method but it is not the "best" way.2) "MARVEL" Style: I don't know if this is true anymore but, at some point, Marvel Comics had a house style, an established format for how their writers were meant to script books. Essentailly the writer would write a detailed plot breakdown, often page by page, and hand that off to the artists who would then turn it into a comic book. Once the pencilled pages were handed back the writer would add dialog to the panels that, until then, he had not seen.I don't much like this method, personally, but it is a perfectly valid way to go. Find what fits for your team and use it.You can find examples in several very good books written on the subject and in pretty much any "director's cut" of a popular comic. Find the format that works best for you and use that but be VERY clear, when writing for people who don't know you, that you are both succinct and descriptive.It's no good telling your artist Overboy looks at Petra Parker unless we know HOW he's looking at her, WHERE from and what the look is meant to convey.Now, writers, it's your job to figure out the best way for you to actually convey those things for yourself. Within the format structure, find your own style. No one can really teach you how but there are clues in any good script that should guide you in writing yours. Deciphering the clues yourself and interpreting them your own way will make you a better writer more quickly than any teacher in any class anywhere. I promise.There's also a delicate balance in how specifically you write as well. People often ask me why I didn't draw PRODIGAL myself. The answer is simple, "I want people to buy it." I can draw. I'm not bad. But Todd is a master and, as such, often puts more into a shot or a design than I could have pictured in a million years. Most writers cannot draw at master level and so should not try to second guess or micro-manage the artist who actually can. Conversely most artists can't write and so should not try to muscle the writer by drawing the story they want to tell rather than what is written.Todd likens his role to that of a film director and cinematographer and I agree. His job is to fully realize the words I scribble, to interpret them in the most interesting way he can. I trust him.More than that, I trust that he will do his work without trying to "steal the book" or take it in some direction it wasn't meant to go. These days it's very very rare that I'll write a shot SO specifically that Todd is locked in to even where the camera is placed.Respect the abilities of your artist enough to give her or him enough to work from and enough creative space to do the amazing things he or she can do. And, artists, if you could write, you would. You mostly can't, most of you, so accept that you can't and respect the words on the pages you're given as much as you want the writers to respect you. It's all about respect.So: Script = blueprint. No more. No less. Artist = Director/Cinematographer. Yes? Respect each other. Build trust. Got it? Good.Okay. The seatbelt signs are off. You're free to move about the cabin. Not sure where you think you're going but movement is allowed. We'll get back to you at meal time with some thoughts about choosing your team.
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Driver to the Starting line (cross post)

Posted by Geoff Thorne on October 7, 2009 at 10:12am
Hi, Folks. Geoff here. I'm the writer half of Genre 19. Todd, like all illustrators in comics, does the real heavy lifting by drawing the wacky stuff I put in the scripts. We thought, since the BIG ANNOUNCEMENT is about to, well, be announced, that it might be fun, at least on this blog, to talk about how the comic book, PRODIGAL: EGG OF FIRST LIGHT came to be.This won't be a discussion about Story or Plot or Character; there won't be any spoilers for the book (because that will come later, when we start releasing pages from the first issue).It's just that so many people ask us about the nuts and bolts of creating a comic and, since we're not household names and don't have the giant machinery of the Big Two or the Slightly Smaller Three behind us, smoothing things over (though we do love our publishers at APE. They work hard for the money, just as we do), we thought it wouldn't be bad to talk about some of the Hows and Whys of making. At least as far as our process, which is not the same as those of others. What we do, how we do it, may work for you; it may not. We hope some of the bumpier aspects of how we got this thing going will at least help those of you who might think making a comic book is impossible to stop thinking that and get on with telling your own tales. There's room for everybody, right? We think so.So, I'm Geoff; I'll be your captain for this flight. Our co-pilot is the lovely and talented Todd. He mostly will sit around looking pretty unless there's some drawing to do, at which point I will sit around looking slightly less pretty until the drawing talk is done. Questions are welcome but there are no guarantees on the answers having any value. We do have a plane to fly.There will be refreshments coming once we hit cruising altitude. You all know where the exits are, of course, so, in case of turbulence, you know what to do.We're just completeing our pre-flight instrument check. once it's done, we'll take off. Until then, feel free to watch the video. Courtesy of this airline and the good folks at YOUTUBE.com.
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back to work

Posted by MariesDaughter on October 4, 2009 at 11:44pm
The past few days have brought several observations.Little things: like wondering why I was not hungry at all during Yom Kippur. If anything, I was a little zoned out. I finally came home and drank some coffee because I was afraid that I would fall asleep during the performance that the choir—that I am a part of—was giving. I wish that I could say that I was occupied in prayer. No—I just wasn’t there at all.I’ve been spending money, which I normally hate to do: buying a new sleeper sofa, buying a new comforter set for the back bedroom, buying fall decorations. I am trying to be a proper host for the coming Thanksgiving when family comes in. Now, if only I can find a maid. Everything hurts, right now, and I haven’t even done that much. I had to sit down and rest after replacing the old spread on the bed.Meanwhile, the Internet and TV has been a drug to keep me away from most writing. That was obvious over Yom Kippur when I swore off using the computer at all for 24 hours. Hard to do! I managed, and I have tried to stay away for a while. I am being dragged back in. I shall put myself on a Facebook diet. That has been the real drug in the past few weeks.
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Harlequin

Posted by mikodragonfly on October 3, 2009 at 6:30am

A clock-work doll sits atop a wobbly mountain of rubble. He has dry, empty sockets where his eyes should be. His smile is wide and full of teeth. A fat tear hangs in suspended animation, mid-dribble down one dirty cheek. The aging sun is going down on the distant horizon, casting its purple gaze across the broken remains of a barren metropolis. There's a tentative click, then the sound of slowly grinding gears.Suddenly, a sharp melody explodes into the air - a relentless, one-man merry-go-round of a carnival. It's that kind of song; the kind of song that spins you round and around in your nightmares before grabbing you by the throat and squeezing the breath out of your lungs. How many times has he played this tune? He has no one left to applaud his remarkable musical wit; no comrades, no culture.The ones who built and broke this continent have long since been forgotten by the insects that buzz there. Even the scum clawing its way up out of the ocean knows little of its sordid origin. Nothing animal moves in this derelict town without first, listening intently for the distant sound of thunder. All creatures here know that a certain rumbling in the sky always precedes the flapping of many gargantuan wings. They arrive, hawkish cries drowning out the mechanical man's tune. A seething cloud of arcuated eyes and rapacious beaks, they darken the sky. They descend in droves, adopting the military precision of the freight-trains and torpedoes of an era, long gone. In the heat of the hunt, they stir up chunks of history mingled with gritty particles from bones they already picked clean a hundred years ago.One majestic crow swoops down upon a crumbling spire and regards their sagging kingdom from his dusty perch. His menacing gaze fixes upon the blind harlequin, the jerky motions of its wiry hands; the pneumatic, spinning mechanism lodged in its skeletal chest. Its head tilts, one black eye reflecting the rising moon and the stirring stars. The crow contemplates the faint, alien sound threaded into the cacophony of winged beasts. It spreads its massive arms and dives down into the rising dark for the kill. The earth shakes. The music stops. It takes flight once again. The doll's iron bones stick in the crow's craw. The red wetness raining from the sky goes unseen. Darkness has filled the whole, wide world. The great beast plummets awkwardly to the stony ground, a multitude of bones cracking.The winged emperor now knows he will not live to see another ghostly dawn. He utters one long, mournful cry. The eager swarm hovers overhead, a pulsating mess of gleaming eyes and snapping beaks. They know no remorse, the voracious giants feasting on the flesh of their kin. They have not changed since they first dominated the earth, millions of years ago. This world was made for these birds. They've known that since the dawn of time.
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Postings at BooksofSoul.com

Posted by Eric at BooksofSoul.com on October 2, 2009 at 12:56am
Books of Soul (www.booksofsoul.com ) has posted interviews with multi-award winning author, Sharon M. Draper, and first-time author, Michele L. Waters.Sharon M. Draper is a highly regarded educator and author. She has been honored as the National Teacher of the Year, is a five-time winner of the Coretta Scott King Literary Award, and is a New York Times bestselling author.Similarly, Michele L. Waters has achieved success in her own right as an entrepreneur. She has now struck out in the literary world with her first novel, Can't Let Go.These interviews, as well as interviews with new authors and with noted authors -- Shelley Parsons, Cheryl Robinson, Laura Castoro, Pamela Samuels Young, Leslie Banks, to name a few -- can be found at http://booksofsoul.com/category/author-interviews/.In addition to our listings of new and soon-to-be-released books, a monthly bestseller lists of black books is featured. This month's special feature is the top-selling mysteries of the year.Check out BooksofSoul.com for upcoming releases of black books and other literary works and to promote your new book.
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Prodigal sons

Posted by Geoff Thorne on September 30, 2009 at 1:00am
So this has been a crazy year. Not worth going into.Ups and downs; you know.So here's an up.My partner and I created a company called GENRE 19 which just means the two of us making comics together.We put together this thing called PRODIGAL which is jut straight up actiony fun. No superheroes. No super villains. No spandex. No secret IDs.Here's the cover of #1

It's officially coming out in February from APE ENTERTAINMENT. Two GIANT issues (48 pages each), one AWESOME story.
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The Planet Star - Unfolding Prophecy

Posted by Cheryll M. Chakrabarti on September 24, 2009 at 11:54am
THEMATIC QUESTION(S)If events are permitted to occur naturally, would prophecies become realities? Can a prophecy be changed by manipulating events? Perhaps prophetic revelations come to fruition when a sequence of events is manipulated, and that prophecy is, in fact, contingent upon those alterations.SUMMARYA young widow leaves her home planet, heading out into the galaxy to a planet that will help her to reestablish her life as well as that of her young son. Unknowingly, she enters the snare of an evil lord who has, for many decades, been searching for “the prophesied widow”, whom he believes holds the key to The Planet Star that would destroy his empire. Shortly after the widow and her son arrive at their destination, they are brutally kidnapped by those in collusion with the evil lord, but his plans are foiled when his archenemy, King Ewlon, daringly rescues the widow and her son. Together, the King and widow cross the galaxy to his home planet and to his home which is the only place The Planet Star can be activated. However, their footsteps are continually dogged by the evil lord and his minions.Footnote: Throughout most of the book, the widow is unaware of the fact her rescuer is a king.Notation: kilo-tran is a little more than 1/2 mile.tran = 3.2 feetI have actually ( ) these calculations below. However, in the actual book the conversion is not given. Since the need to convert these measurements are so few, I have given that notation in a Reader's Description of Terms at the end of the book.Opening scene:Chapter 1 A NEW BEGINNINGShreela Bakra – Widow of TimaShreela Bakra leaned against the doorpost of her home,gazing at the purple dorfa tree saplings. Her long brown hairbillowed in the cool gusty wind and made her shiver. Wrappingher soft gray cloak tightly around her petite frame, she againrested against the doorpost so that she could spend a few moreprecious moments to enjoy her last sunrise in her belovedhome, gazing at the shimmering autumn scene.Shreela’s home located in the Province of Aurel onParamon’s moon, Tima, is about eight parsecs beyond thefringe of the Milky Way in the Gena Solar System. The hills andvalleys of the northern most area of Aurel were clothed in themulti-colored splendor of fall. A cool intermittent wind blew infrom the northwest causing the falling leaves to make a faintsnipping sound as they fell upon the crisp leaves already pilingup on the ground.This gracious Bakra estate lay sequestered deep within theAcacia Forest, isolated from the nearby town of Kalinif, overfive kilo-trans (approx. 3 mi) away. Despite the partially barren trees, thedensity of the forest kept Shreela’s home hidden from pryingeyes. Sounds of small woodland creatures skipping across thecarpet of dry leaves filled the air. A well-trodden pathwayleading to the mansion was covered with purple, blue, red, andorange leaves shed by the towering trees surrounding the home.Shreela looked up for a moment, watching the puffs of smokerising from the chimney, then quickly swept away by a gentlebreeze. Finally, she descended the front steps to take a shortturn around the house. Stopping for a moment and shading hereyes, Shreela watched the early morning sun rays stipplethrough the wall of trees on the southeastern side of themansion, revealing several large teardrop windows, recessed inthe sand-colored brick structure, highlighted by three toffeecoloreddoors. This majestic main entrance door, standing threetrans high (about 9.5 ft), was magnificently covered with handcrafted woodenreliefs.At the time of his death, Jor Bakra was a well-knownastrophysicist, and Director of Research and Development forAstrofi, a large science and aerospace engineering company onTima. Jor also ran his own private aerospace design businesswhere he developed and produced satellite containmentchambers. He was well paid for his services, both corporate andprivate, and Shreela lived a very comfortable life.During the second year of their eight-year marriage, Shreelaleft her career job as a full-time linguist, to give birth to theironly son, Soren. Since small in-home businesses werecommonplace on Tima, Shreela started her own business as alanguage consultant contracting with several small companies.In the beginning, her business kept her quite busy, but as theprice for translator equipment dropped, her business dwindledto almost nothing.Shreela went back upstairs and began pacing the veranda.With her head bowed, eyes closed, and arms folded across herchest, she thought about the drastic changes in her lifefollowing Jor’s death and argued with herself, justifying herdecision to leave Tima. I’ve spent almost all of the savings and creditsto pay off creditors for loans secured by Jor and for supplies necessary for hisresearch projects, she thought. Now I’m nearly bankrupt. Since I cannotreturn these supplies, I can only sell them for half the price which leaves mewith just enough credits to cover payment on this house, and maintenance,for about two cycles - three at most. With one-hundred-eighty cycles left topay, how can I carry the load without financial support?Shreela realized that she needed retraining before she couldreenter the professional job marketplace. She had already puther home on the market, hoping there might be some creditsleft after expenses. Shreela soon learned that she would still nothave enough left over to pay for the program on Tima, andsupport herself and Soren. However, there would be enough topay for a similar program on the planet Thesbis – the planet ofwidows - in the Unian Solar System.The particulars on the book are as follows:Title: The Planet Star – Unfolding ProphecyAuthor: C.M. ChakrabartiISBN-13: 978-1-58982-454-6ISBN-10: 1-58982-454-7Distribution: amazon.com, barns&noble.com, pdbookstore.comPublisher: American Book PublishingAs you know, the opening chapter is always the most difficult. I felt the need to allow the reader to see the environment of the widow, and understand her loss. Her change in status is acute. It is not uncommon that women who leave the workplace to stay home for a while with their children discover that when returning to the work place, even after a short span of time, they have become obselete. There are no social programs on Tima to help Shreela. She has no family on that planet. What can she do?
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Vision (by Valjeanne Jeffers & Quinton Veal)

Posted by Valjeanne Jeffers on September 23, 2009 at 12:00pm
Listen:Last nightI dreamtsensous and terribleof a man who cherished a womanwith every beat of his hearthe listened carefully whenshe whispered love --sexuality innocentas untouched snowAnd of a brotherwho plotted the destructionof them bothHis spirit was redeemedby glimpses from thepast:offeringschildrenembracethey speed togetherunitedacross timeacross galaxiesto fight...Is this memoryfrom my collective unconsciousa prophecy of our racedivine murmuringor only a dream?You tell meCopyright Valjeanne Jeffers & Quinton Veal 2009
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Nnedi in SF Signal's Mind Meld

Posted by Nnedi Okorafor on September 20, 2009 at 6:39pm
Excerpted from the latest Mind Meld:

Q: What book introduced you to science fiction?

Nnedi Okorafor

Nnedi Okorafor is a science fiction and fantasy novelist of Nigerian descent. Her books include Zahrah the Windseeker (winner of the 2008 Wole Soyinka Africa Prize for Literature), The Shadow Speaker (An NAACP Image Award Nominee) and Long Juju Man (winner of the Macmillan Prize for Africa). Her novels Who Fears Death (DAW) and Akata Witch (Penguin) and chapter book, Iridessa and the Fire-Bellied Dragon Frog (Disney Press), are scheduled for release in 2010.


The book that introduced me to science fiction was The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy. It remains one of my all time favorite novels. I even give it a subtle (well, not that subtle) shout-out in my first novel, Zahrah the Windseeker. I was about twelve when I discovered The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy.

When I was growing up, I wasn't aware of the categories of science fiction and fantasy. However, I naturally gravitated toward books with speculative elements. I also liked nonfiction science books. My introduction to Isaac Asimov was through his nonfiction science books, not his science fiction. I picked up The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy in the library because it had that green circle monster with the big grin on it.

This creature highly amused me. I thought it was cute, funny, mysterious and strange. I didn't know what the book was about at ALL. I've never been too fond of stories about people on spaceships. They make me feel claustrophobic, as does the very idea of space travel. But this wasn't the case with the story of Arthur, Ford, Zaphod, and Trillion.

There was lots of breathable space in this novel, even within the ship, ha ha. When I picked up this novel, I was really really into all the animal field guides. The idea of the Hitchhiker's Guide, a constantly evolving field guide about everything...I LOVED that; the very idea sent my mind soaring.

Also, my strongest subjects were math and science and even back then, I had a love for illogical logic. I went on to read all the books in the series, of course. The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy was the first book to make me laugh really hard out loud. And I thought hard about the Infinite Improbability Drive.

The whale and the petunias...priceless on so many levels. I played that scene over and over again in my head for years. Because I wasn't familiar with the science fiction tradition that the book was mocking, I read the book in a different way. It wasn't a satire to me, it was just this really f*cking weird hilarious novel that was different from everything else I'd read. Oh and I have to mention that because it had lots of aliens, I felt included. I was reading tons of novels (genre and non-genre fiction) and none of what I was picking up had any people of color in them. This bothered me on a subconscious level. The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxywas about BEING alien.

Arthur lost his whole planet and then he was thrust into a "world" bigger than his earth and it was full of truly diverse "aliens". It was a refreshing read for someone like me. I first read it as a library copy. It was not until I was in my late teens that I got one of those copies with all the books in one volume. I now own several copies of the series along with an old original cassette recording of the BBC radio series (used book sales can be so awesome!). A few days ago my 6-year-old daughter said, "I really want to fly! Mommy, how do I fly?" What did I tell her? "Anyaugo, just throw yourself at the ground and miss!" That kept her busy for about an hour. Ha ha ha! Lastly, YES I plan to read the forthcoming And Another Thing... by Eoin Colfer, the sixth installment in the series. It's not Adams, but it is Colfer doing Adam's characters, so I'll bite.

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eve of Jewish New Year

Posted by MariesDaughter on September 18, 2009 at 4:59pm
I am trying to feel “Happy New Year” when so much hate is creeping across the land. After all, I know so many good people. Even my workshop members who I drive batty.I got another call begging me to write or call my senator about health care. Done that 2 or 3 times already. I guess that I will take a page from my elders’ notebook and do it again--even if I don’t think they are listening. On Facebook, I pasted a phrase from Sh’ma which came, the essayist says, from Kotzker Rebbe: “Only God can fix the world using broken tools”.So here I am, broken. Use me well.
Tonight begins a new year.
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Banjo Strings - Ch. 1

Posted by Larry Winfield on September 16, 2009 at 8:37pm
(Note: this Sci Fi/Horror/Neo-Southern Gothic Fable is explicit and for mature audiences only...)Chapter 1Augustus Wainwright was having an old familiar dream, of when he was thirteen and caught the dark chocolate upstairs maid smoking in his mother's bathroom, her private sanctuary. He'd fancied that gal all summer, and now he had her, close enough to touch. His face stretched into a goofy grin, he ordered the maid to his room near the back of the mansion. He bent her over his desk, slid down her panties, undid his pants and just watched, breathing in the faint new aroma, entranced by his first real look at a woman's vagina. The best part of the dream came when she, realizing her position and resigning herself to it, reached back and took matters in hand. He shuddered in anticipation, and then an irritating noise, an itch he couldn't scratch, ice-picked its way from...where?He looked up, out through the window where he expected to see Mother bent over the azaleas in the garden, instead, he saw her standing, wearing an old-time plantation ball gown, passionately kissing a shirtless, barefoot black man. The noise scratched itself into a banjo being tuned, then strummed. It jarred him awake. He heard a murmur behind him on the bed, sat up and looked over to see Rebecca Sandiford, the girl from last night's party, curled up beside him. Damn, he groaned. She didn't leave when the cops ran everybody off. Downstairs, he heard a banjo being strummed. He blinked his eyes, looking over at the clock on the nightstand. 3:02 AM. "He'll come at three in the morning, the day after your birthday." Auntie Aggie's words spilled from his lips, underscored by the banjo...He slowly got out of bed, his heart beating faster as he watched the girl sleeping. He heard the first verse of "Dixie" softly playing and then repeating, at once coming from the parlor downstairs, and as if from miles away, bringing a heaviness that settled around him and squeezed. He fought to calm himself, force his breathing a little closer to normal. He went to the window, looking up and down the street in front for the county sheriff's car. It was parked outside when he told Rebecca to leave with the rest of his friends, half an hour later he'd passed out after finishing off another bottle of Jack Daniels alone. She must've hid, and no deputy either, he worried as the song began again, a dreamy echo outside the room.That goddamn cable show he'd been watching immediately sprang to mind. "The File Room...” He hated the show, though he'd watched every week for the past year, growing more and more alarmed as they proved this supernatural crap was real. Each episode that had a ghost in it filled him with sick dread. This will make one hell of an episode, though, he thought.For Augustus Wainwright, a life of luxury, parties, privilege, and being spared the burden of inheriting the family business, ended as his 20th birthday approached. A week ago, he was dragged from a beach bar in Rio and deposited in this small family-owned house on the west side of Liberty Plaines, in the kingdom of Wainwright County. It was his turn as the latest first-born son to go through this ordeal or be disowned. He was only 19 when brought before his Auntie Aggie, Agnes Wainwright, the matriarch of the family. She first spoke the names Jacob and Polly, and told him about the curse that afflicted the Wainwrights and the LeChettes, another old prominent plantation family in the county. She shared with him the part of the family history that had been kept from him his whole life.She looked deeply embarrassed as she told him that Jacob was a runaway field nigger who was caught by Justin Wainwright and Lucien LeChette in 1832. As they were bringing him back he put a curse on them and they killed him. Polly was just a crazy old kitchen slave who died when Justin was a boy, but she appears as a little girl and haunts Wainwright Park. Augustus could tell there was a lot more to it than that, but Auntie wouldn't say, though her face tightened with the knowing of it.His Auntie showed him manila folders containing the original sheriff’s reports for his late uncle Jeffrey Wainwright in 67 and Oscar LeChette in 83. The obituary pages folded inside listed their deaths as 'heart attack' and 'stroke' the morning after their 20th birthdays.Augustus never heard of Uncle Jeffrey. The family members never mentioned him, far as he could remember. He supposed the LeChettes never mentioned their first-born sons either, as if they didn't matter and would be forgotten soon enough. At 19 he realized that he was never challenged or encouraged in school like his siblings; he was indulged and entertained, treated more like a child with a terminal disease. Soon to be covered over and forgotten, like something shameful, like he was a part of the curse, just accept it and die and let them all move on.Well, two months ago he hired an attorney outside the family's influence and shared the shameful family history, and gave him a letter with instructions.He glanced over at Rebecca and grimaced as the music downstairs paused. In 83, Oscar LeChette had a young woman with him when the ghost twins visited. She didn't survive. The girl being here was bad...August Wainwright took a deep breath as the banjo playing started again, the sound crawling up and down his spine. He slipped on a night robe and walked slowly to the door. Opened it as quietly as he could, watching for any movement from Rebecca, he then eased himself out and closed it with a muffled 'click,' slowly crept down the hall then, paused at the stairs, the music drifting up from the parlor below. He started down, close to the wall but staying clear of the paintings and portraits of the proud lineage of Wainwrights through the past two hundred years, And down the wall were the smaller solitary portraits of the firstborn sons at age ten. Eight of them since the Northern Aggression and only two ever lived past the age of 20. His picture wasn't there yet, but there was space for it. The grim chain was begun by Beau II, the unfortunate first son of Beauregard T Wainwright. Augustus passed his portrait as he reached the bottom of the stairs, facing the entrance to the parlor.The banjo playing stopped abruptly. Upstairs, the sudden absence of sound stirred the girl awake. She reached out lazily for him, opened her eyes, finding the bed empty. She looked around the dark room, shadows draped over the Victorian and Colonial furniture. "Gus?"She'd hid in the upstairs closet as the deputy was breaking up the party, then went downstairs to the kitchen until Gus fell asleep. She had decided at the party that the ghost story was romantic, it made her like him even more, even though she'd never met him before tonight, but they both felt an immediate attraction when they met in the kitchen. On impulse, she decided to stay and give him a wake up present, then go with him wherever he would jet off to, whether it was Rio or Prague or Timbuktu. Rebecca was taking a year off from college and exploring all of her wild impulses. And she discovered Augustus liked to travel and party. But where was he?In the middle of the parlor, Augustus saw a young, powerfully built black man, the man who invaded his dream, barefoot, shirtless, his face sweltering from the sun. There was no sunlight in the room, but he could see it glinting off his back and arms as he swung a hoe in short, sure, down strokes, with a phantom blade that chopped into the fine oak floor, but made no damage. Old Jacob.... Augustus winced as he felt his heart squeeze again. It passed after a few seconds. He grunted, then straightened up, breathing hard as Jacob stood upright, letting the hoe slip from his hands and fade away as it fell.Augustus shivered as Jacob calmly studied him. Jacob himself looked no more than 19 or 20, his dark skin still shining from the hot sun of some long gone day in the fields. His face was calm, serene, but the eyes reflected all the ugliness and inhumanity captured those few years."You know who I am?" the ghost said. Augustus tried not to show his fear. "Yes," he said just as calmly. Jacob smiled. "Yo Uncle Jeffrey pissed hisself 'fore he could even speak." In a split second, Jacob was standing a foot in front of him. Before he could react, Jacob placed his broad dark hand squarely on his chest. "Time to see, Wainwright! See if you get a taste, or take a ride."The girl walked slowly from the bedroom to the top of the stairs, wondering did she really hear a banjo playing? She finished tying up her robe and, as silently as she could, quickly made her way downstairs, stopping at the landing. She saw Gus standing in the doorway of the parlor, shaking. There's somebody else in there, but she couldn't see. She inched around Gus, craning her neck to see into the dark. Rebecca and Jacob saw each other in the same instant.Jacob froze her in place with a forceful wave of his hand. He clawed the air in front of him the way you'd catch a fly, and she was instantly standing before him, immobile and trembling. Jacob turned to Augustus, his face registering disappointment. They know better than to have anybody else there, but they still do it. He looked around at the remains of a party decorating the parlor. Wainwright first born don't deserve birthday parties either, even one so sickly.He continued reading them; they weren't nowhere near as bad as some Wainwrights, so they would get off easy. He only had mild charms on him this time, as concession to the tearful pleas of Agnes Wainwright. Jacob pulled 'Gus closer until they were nose to nose. "You takin' a ride alright, but you might just make it. Only on account of your weak heart and her."His body glistened as he built himself up, his hands clutching the front lapels of the helpless pair's robes. Two specks of sunlight appeared before them, bright glowing embers. They began to shine and Augustus stared into its bottomless light, his eyes beginning to shine. A flash as his speck exploded and he suddenly gasped and began struggling against unseen bonds. Jacob released his grip on Augustus, watched him slowly fall backward, land gently on the floor.Jacob watched Rebecca's eyes as they glowed in reflection of her speck of light. After the flash he was completely caught off guard when he saw which ride she began. Not Emma Jane, an older woman caught alone working in a slave patch at dusk, forced to service two local town boys taking a shortcut to Maison Road. This was Annie's ride, one of the worst ones he had, but he wasn't carrying... He felt his pants pocket for the pouch, and the two bones within, then he felt it resting on top of the pouch. Annie's bone. He groaned, "Dammit, Polly..."Jacob pulled the girl close, shaking with anger and regret. This girl didn't deserve Annie's ride. Holding her head still, he whispered in her ear, "I'm sorry. I hope..." He released her, watched her settle gently to the floor beside Augustus Wainwright, who twitched like a fish on a hook.Jacob closed his eyes, began to search the surrounding countryside for his companion, sweeping his gaze through the small town, past the square, and out beyond the town to the farms and the old Maison Road that once connected three great plantation houses, to the park where the third and most beautiful mansion used to stand. There, on the swings beside a gazebo, a young teenage girl wearing just a shirt was in the middle swing, long dark legs kicking out as she swung forward. "What are you up to now?" he muttered. Just then, a car sped past, skidded to a stop on the road past the gazebo, then roared away. Polly smiled, jumped off the swing and started walking toward the road. When the car appeared back on the road approaching the park, Jacob waited, wondering who Polly was playing with.-------------Augustus spun, lost his balance, but didn't fall. He looked up, dazed, and saw his hands, feeling funny, smaller than before, bound to ropes. His arms were spread apart and tied to the large overhead branch of an old tree. The high sun dappled through the leaves. His eyes finally focused. His name was Samuel. And his skin was black as shit."...Tole you what I'd do if I caught you scratching on the ground again, Samuel. Young miss ain't here now, nigger!" Augustus felt the spittle of tobacco juice splatter against Samuel's bare back. The heaviness in his chest returning, he tried desperately to yell out, beg, scream, but the mouth had a mind of its own, refusing to open. He felt Samuel straining against his bonds until an ear-splitting crack exploded just behind his head. "Hold still, nigger..." Samuel froze. Augustus was reduced to shallow gulps. The frayed end of the whip exploded between his shoulder blades, two, three times. He writhed between the ropes as the overseer put just the tip of the whip next to the skin..."...Now you see why I run the yard for Master Beauregard, boy! He says 'don't make no long ugly scars, make little pretty scars, like spring blossoms..." Crack! Four and five split the air at Augustus' right ear. His head snapped away. Six snapped just above the base of his spine and his legs went numb. Augustus was in agony, struggling as a wave of pins and needles cascaded down his legs, then the maddening mix of intense pain and complete numbness swept in fading waves over his body. His mouth finally opened, and Augustus screamed out, but it didn't sound like him, but like a young boy. It was getting harder to breathe the dry, hot air. He slumped to one side, looking like a marionette dangling from its strings. The heavy weight on his chest allowed him small, gulping breaths.Seven, Eight. The overseer enjoyed this part of the job; it was why he was hired. Master Beauregard detested the long, ugly scars many slaves carried on their backs. He considered it a failure in livestock management. Still, slaves had to be corrected and trained. "Make the scars smaller," he insisted, firing three overseers until he found one with a deft touch and deadly accuracy.Nine.Ten snapped sharply at the base of the boy's skull. Augustus gasped in shock, inhaled too quickly and swallowed his tongue. He flailed, desperately, his blocked throat silent. He passed out at lash no. 13. He was dead by the time the overseer untied Samuel from the tree...----------------Rebecca came to running, stumbling to a noisy stop inside a line of trees, from the glow of the full moon into pitch darkness. She leaned unsteadily against a tree, her head spinning from being at Gus' mansion, then flashing eyes and sudden terror, and the sudden knowledge slammed into her head that she was also a Wainwright house girl named Annie, with a white man's blood on her hands, with her own blood staining her thighs. She looked back through the trees to the LeChette House, grand in its own way, but not as majestic as her Massa's House. Screams inside and four men tearing out the back door almost made her scream as she froze behind a tree. When they went back inside she turned and ran quickly and silently through the woods. South. Wainwright house is two miles south at the other end of Maison Road, Annie whispered to her. The three remaining cousins of Lucien LeChette, the Stonehill brothers, would be on her soon enough if she didn't keep moving. And they knew where she'd be running to.Rebecca had no control of the body as Annie worked her way well off the roads south to Wainwright House, but she saw, and felt the young house girl's terror of being caught again by those boys. She'd already been violated by Master Franklin Stonehill, him still roughly pounding into her on the floor of the upstairs bedroom by the time she got one of Mistress LeChettes' knitting needles into his neck. She pulled herself off of his rigid, trembling penis as she stabbed him a second time in the neck, shoving him onto his back on the floor, pushing down her dress and watched him, wiping the blood from her hand on his undone pants. He shuddered and came, arms flailing, grasping at the large needle, sputtering loudly as death throes increased the intensity of his last orgasm. The other brothers, still downstairs in the billiard room, laughed at Franklin's garbled outcry. He stopped gurgling and struggling finally, and bending over him, she took out the knitting needle. Blood sprayed from his neck, splashing across the front of her dress, sprinkling her face and neck.She sprang off him in a panic, scrambling to her feet. Heart pounding, she took the dress off, wiped the blood from her face, then tossed it on Franklin's exposed crotch. She found a plain yellow dress in mistress' wardrobe and put it on, panic clawing at her fingers as she struggled with the buttons. The other Stonehill brothers were just downstairs, any of them could come up any moment to join Franklin in "gittin' some high yella nigger juice...." Annie spent a long minute biting down on her terror, remembering the advice of Old Ruth: "If you ever wind up havin' to kill some damn white boy cause he won't leave you alone, only two things you can do. Run, and don't stop. If you can't run, child, use this..." Old Ruth reached into her bosom and took out a small leather pouch containing a single-shot pistol and five bullets. "If it comes down to it, save the last one for yourself, child..." The pistol, hers now that Old Ruth passed over last year, was back at the cabin, hidden underneath.She moved steadily, walking fast through the woods, running full out across the moonlit open fields at crossroads, until finally she reached the cabins back of the Wainwright smokehouse. No time for goodbyes or nothing, she thought, as she crept to the rear of Old Ruth's cabin and felt around for the hidey-hole. Make my way to New Orleans and disappear. In the city she could pass...Rebecca felt the anger that flared up in the girl at the thought of 'being able to pass', the monumental insult that being 'high yellow' was what drew the attention of the damned cousins in the first place. Two days before they were visiting young master Julius at LeChette House, stopping their game of billiards when she walked pass the doorway carrying a parcel for Mistress upstairs. They marveled at how similar she was to Alexander Wainwright's dear sister Athena, who was a lovely girl, but spent far too much time with her mother and her bible to be available, but this young lass was very available and couldn't say no...Annie found the pouch with the gun and bullets in a hole covered by a rock. Clutching it in her shaking hands, she crept around the cabins, scanning the yard between the cabins, the smokehouse and the main house. Her satchel, with all her worldly possessions, was in the upstairs sewing room. She dashed for the back door, praying the Stonehill boys weren't already at the front door...
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Sigh

Posted by MariesDaughter on September 14, 2009 at 11:30pm
Sigh--I went all "Black" on my writing workshop tonight.One tires of having to explain the substructure of a story. On the other hand, it is instructive to see much how they miss. I have more or less decided that I will explain, but I am not going to denature Black culture.In science fiction, you don't stop and explain how "ray guns" work, and I am not going to stop and explain that Texas Southern is a Black school and that maybe a character described as a student there might be Black too. If you don't know, go look it up. You're more likely to get an answer to that question than how ray guns work.That's not to say that there were not things that could be fixed. But I am tired of the complaint that they didn't know that a character was Black.Tired and going to bed......
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Scrapping and rethinking---------WarHammer Trials

Posted by Raymond Murray on September 11, 2009 at 1:54pm
Well sort of considering the fact I never really destroy anything-just rethinking the ordermy main focus now is trying to make everything fit....you know family trees timeline...that's really important to me..........So the next story will be Children of Fire and Ice it has been brought to my attention that my Queen Phenica character is of great interest on other websites of course) and I need to elaborate on her more.
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